An OLD BOOK, BLACK in colour, rests on the table in an overtly synchronized state of vicious equilibrium with the dystopian world. Nothing is written on it's cover.
Light emanates from it. The whole spectrum.
Isn't black, supposedly a colour which absorbs all other colours, or let's say devours all other colours?
Is this good or bad, a miracle or a sin?
Will it be wise to open the book?
What is that book?
What lies inside?
p.s. - please pardon me for my naive painting.